The Purple Beast Incident
by Contraltissimo
Summary: Everything you never wanted to know about Phlegma the Fierce.


**Rated T** for booze. And language I suppose, if you are British; apologies!

Prize oneshot for one of my dear friends from DeviantArt, who went to ridiculous lengths to win a certain contest I hosted. :)

Don't worry-I'm still working on Dragon Journals...

**[EDIT]** - I keep finding places where the spaces between words has been removed. I'm trying to fix all those, but if any of y'all spots any more of those (or any other grammatical/spelling errors) let me know, would you? Thanks! - **[END EDIT]**

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_for ch4rms_

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Phlegma the Fierce was having a bad day.

She hadn't thought much of it when dragons had attacked the village the previous morning. When her house had exploded during the raid, she merely sighed. Sometimes these things just happened.

When Chief Stoick the Vast had later proposed yet another search for the dragons' nest, Phlegma had admittedly felt rather vexed at the suicidal venture. But she managed to voice her concerns calmly and rationally with the rest of the tribe.

However, when Stoick had then stated that the alternative to joining in the search would be staying home and nannying his inescapably volatile son... she had begun to feel downright _put-upon_.

The long sail under a clear sky and through a salty breeze in the company of her warriors had managed to lift her spirits some. But now, three minutes after the Vikings' ships had entered the shrouding mist of the dragons' territory, _two_ minutes after they had been attacked by the defending beasts, and with her head in the jaws of a Monstrous Nightmare as it tried to chew the living daylights out of her helmet... Phlegma had decidedly entered what she considered to be a Really Bad Mood.

In the suddenness of the attack and the tight confusion of the fog, she and another fellow had been plucked clean off the leading ship and dragged some distance into the mazy multitude of rock spires and needle-sharp islets encompassing what was believed to be the dragons' central hive. No doubt their assailant was looking for a quieter spot to enjoy its meal...

But Phlegma had no such plans to end up as lunch today.

It had taken her a moment to free one arm from the dragon's talons and jam a knife between its toes. She had hoped this would make it let go, but it only let out an ear-splitting shriek, and tumbled heavily against one of the jutting rocks, pinning Phlegma to the uncomfortably jagged ground beneath and knocking the wind from her lungs.

The dragon had then removed its foot from its prey in order to get a better hold on the slippery stone, and bent down to try and bite Phlegma's head off, getting instead a mouthful of helmet and horn.

And that was when Phlegma decided that she really should have just stayed in bed that morning.

The very last straw came when she slipped out of her headgear and felt her thick, blonde braid snag on the damaged metal. A prickle of needles ran down her scalp as several hairs parted company with her head.

Scrambling up the slick, black rock and turning back with a yell of outrage, she put out one of the beast's eyes with her spear. As the dragon reared away, bellowing in pain and dropping the helmet, Phlegma followed through and lopped off its head entirely. Jaws still gaping, the head _plashed_ into the sea and bobbed there dismally, while the rest of the body slumped over sideways and crashed into the water, sending out a small tidal wave in all directions.

Phlegma took a deep, somewhat angry breath as she stood alone on the scanty slip of rock. She could barely see ten yards out for the fog, and the only sound was that of the water lapping against the stone. There was no sign of the ships.

She spat on the scaly body in a fury. It was definitely going to be a very, _very_ bad day.

The lapping grew into a frantic sloshing, and Phlegma noticed the poor Viking the dragon had snatched up in its other foot, now stuck facedown in the water under the creature's thick tail.

Stepping into the shallows and wading over, she reached beneath the surface, grabbed the man under the armpits and _pulled_. He came up spluttering, shaking out his sandy, shaggy hair and spitting seaweed from his... remarkably _short_ beard. _Children_, thought Phlegma, _we've come to bringing children on our raids_... He couldn't have seen more than twenty years. At most.

He coughed uncontrollably for a moment on his hands and knees, and Phlegma thumped him heartily on the back. "Go on, get it out," she said flatly. Was this Oddný's son? "What's your name?"

"_Guff_," he choked.

Yep, that was Oddný's boy all right. When had he gotten so big?

"Who are you under, Guff?" Phlegma continued.

Guff shuddered as he figured out how to breathe again. "Hoark," he finally gasped, and stood up, shaking. "Hohh, I thought I was dead," he stammered as he regarded the dragon's huge carcass in the reddening water.

"Lucky you, you're still alive. Now hold this," Phlegma thrust her spear roughly into his hands and pulled the binding off her braid. She held the cord in her mouth as her fingers combed out her hair—that little snarl with her helmet had pulled everything out of balance, and the uneven tugging over her skull was starting to give her a headache.

After a moment of furious weaving, she had her unruly mane bound back again in a plait tighter than a barrel-seam, and then she found her helmet. With a depressed sigh she removed several strands of blonde hair from the crack that had appeared between the rim and one of the bolts when the dragon had seen fit to try and eat her head.

Her eyes narrowed as she considered saying a very naughty word. She _liked_ this helmet. But, as there was nothing for it but to have it pounded back into shape when they returned home, she set it on her head backwards, facing the bolt away from her braid so as not to snag on anything again, and turned back to Guff.

He was veritably _shaking_ in his boots. He finally took his eyes from the dead dragon and looked at Phlegma in bewilderment, no doubt frightened for his life and wondering where in Odin's name they had ended up.

"Ah, forgive me," he shivered, straightening up. "I'd just—never been so _frightened for my life_," he panted, cracking a nervous smile. He looked about, peering into the fog. "Where in Odin's name _are _we?" he breathed.

Phlegma sighed. She had learned long ago never to give time to such thoughts. They never helped.

"No idea," she said, taking back her spear, "But let's start back, shall we?" And she started up the slippery stone.

"Where are you going?" Guff asked in alarm.

"To have a look around," she called back, "—_if there's anything to see_," she added to herself with a grumble.

Indeed, when she had climbed to the top of the spire, all she could see were the hazy silhouettes of scores and scores of other twisting rocks in all directions, their outlines seeming to writhe and curl as the endless mist shifted around them. She thought she could hear the rippling scream of dragon-cries somewhere to her left...

Looking up, she was relieved to find she could at least make out the fuzzy glow where the sun seemed to be. The sounds of irate dragons seemed to be coming from the south... which would make sense, if that Monstrous Nightmare had dragged them deeper into the dragons' territory... which Phlegma was_pretty sure_ had been the case...

She nodded to herself. South was their best bet.

Descending once more she looked Guff up and down. His hands were empty. "Have you got a weapon on you?" she asked, barely concealing her incredulousness.

"I—I dropped my axe, when—"

Phlegma didn't need to hear it. "All right, all right," she cut him off, "here," she waded out to the dragon again and wrenched the knife from between its toes, "you can use this for now." She tossed it to him.

"We'll swim for it, that way," Phlegma continued, pointing, "Rock to rock."

Guff nodded mutely, tucking the knife into his belt and gulping as his eyes swept over the dark water.

Wasting no time, Phlegma waded into the sea until the scarce ground of the islet gave way beneath her, and slipped noiselessly into the water. The sudden chill set the gooseflesh prickling all up her arms and neck, but she didn't allow herself to spare enough thought to worry about it. She had to focus on getting back to her ship and her tribe. And keeping her greenhorn companion in one piece until they got there.

Phlegma started as she realized something. Turning to face Guff, she murmured seriously, "Is this your first time through the Fog Wall?"

"Yes," Guff answered, gingerly following after her and puffing as the cold water came over his shoulders.

"_Don't splash_," she advised, and started off in a steady breaststroke toward the next rock. She considered reassuring him that all the ungodly, flesh-eating sea creatures beneath them would probably be too occupied with the smorgasbord of dead Monstrous Nightmare to pay any heed to two quietly passing Vikings. But as that thought hadn't seemed yet to occur to him... well, she would let him remain in his own blissful ignorance for now.

They paddled on in silence, pushing off rock after twisted rock and wading short distances here and there for a mere _ten minutes_, before Guff finally sprang Phlegma's second-least favorite question.

"Sooo..." he began, and Phlegma could tell by the tone of his voice exactly what he was going to say, "_Phlegma the Fierce_..." he spoke her name with awe and respect, "Is it true, about how you defeated the Purple Beast?"

_Were people still talking about that?_ "Did you hear it from Gnarl or Spitelout?" she asked, her toes sweeping for purchase on the deep stone as she and Guff skirted another twisting rock.

"Actually I heard it from Ack," said Guff.

"Well, Ack probably heard it from Spitelout, and Spitelout doesn't know what he's talking about."

"But Gnarl knows the _real_ story?"

"No."

"Oh."

There was another spell of silence as they found solid stone again and waded waist-deep between two sheer spires that reached like tormented claws into the air. And then...

"Can _you_ tell me how it happened, then?" asked Guff.

Phlegma cast her eyes heavenward. "Why? You already seem to know the story."

"Well, I know that '_Spitelout doesn't know what he's talking about_' at least," Guff replied, "Besides, what else have we got to do?"

Phlegma sighed and looked around her. Jagged, foggy islets stretched out as far as the eye could see. Her Bad Day didn't look to be improving any time soon. Guff did have a point.

"Well..." she began, "I had a nasty cough at the time..."

- X - X - X - X - X -

_Phlegma leapt from the house just as it detonated._

__

The deafening blast rattled her bones and very nearly burst her eardrums as she landed in a heap on the ground. Splintered planks, still alight, rained from the sky, glancing off her helmet.

She looked down. The boy in her arms was still screaming in fright, but seemed otherwise unhurt.

_Coughing and sneezing, her throat _burning_, she quickly jogged him back toward the Great Hall, where many of the women and the youngest of the children had gathered. The boy's mother, Hedda the Turbulent, stood shrieking near the base of the stairs, her helmet askew and her shield in pieces as she called for her son._

__

Phlegma thrust the boy into his mother's arms, took one look at the inviting safety of the Hall... and then ran in the opposite direction.

She had lost her spear somewhere near the pasture when the Purple Beast had made one of its passes at the sheep. She could see the great brute in the air now, huge as a whale and shrieking like death. It swooped down, slowly, terribly, like a monstrous crow, igniting the base of one of the towering torches and seeming to cackle in delight as the structure toppled over in one enormous, devastating ball of flame. The creature's vivid hide glowed like blood in the firelight.

The Purple Beast was the largest, ugliest, most vicious Zippleback anyone had ever seen. Not to mention the only one with three heads. The third head seemed to sprout like a parasitic weed from the neck of the gas-breathing head. It could produce neither gas of its own nor the sparks of ignition, but its teeth were just as sharp as those of the other heads, its voice twice as shrill, and its face thrice as ugly.

Phlegma watched it diving and rolling amid the riot of smaller dragons all around, thrashing rooftops with its tail and terrorizing the livestock. It was a struggle to take her eyes off it long enough to locate her spear.

When she finally did find her weapon near the smoldering remains of a wagon, she started off at a run toward where the Purple Beast was causing the most damage. They had to kill this thing.

Spitelout vaulted into step alongside her, brandishing an axe in each hand. "Shouldn't you be looking after somebody?" he shouted, "Where's Hiccup?"

"Gobber has him," Phlegma yelled back through another hoarse cough.

_"Phlegma, you _heartless_," Spitelout chided, "Can't you let the man recover in peace?"_

__

"He can handle it!" Phlegma countered.

The two of them rounded a charred building whose framework suddenly gave out, collapsing in a shower of sparks. One huge beam pitched toward them with an ominous creak.

_"_Watch out!_" Spitelout hollered._

__

They jumped for it.

Spitelout made it clear.

Phlegma didn't.

The beam caught her squarely across her midsection, and would have squashed her flat, or pinched her in two, if she hadn't landed in a haystack. The weight of the ponderous log was cushioned by the pile, and Phlegma lay merely pinned, deep in the prickly, scratchy depths of the fodder as embers from the ruined house rained down around her, setting little flames dancing merrily among the dry stalks. She quickly batted them out with her hands to keep them from spreading through the haystack—

And then she heard the Purple Beast's scream.

She couldn't see where Spitelout had gone.

All she could focus on was the menacing form of that most Hideous Zippleback as it landed heavily on the ground before her, shrieking like a devil. She could feel the rumble of its hulking paws making contact with the earth.

_Six demonic eyes fixed on her, glittering with reflected firelight from the village all around. The gas-head let loose a jet of foul, putrid green vapor, directly into the haystack, and Phlegma's face. She coughed and wheezed in the rancid stench, gasping for breath, her already aggravated lungs heaving in distress. Tears streamed from her burning eyes as the spark-head loomed into view above her, not a yard from her face. Its jaws opened wide..._

- X - X - X - X - X -

"Let's climb this rock," said Phlegma.

"What?" Guff started, "Well what—what happened?"

Phlegma ignored him. She could see some good footholds in the stone. She started up straight away, shivering slightly as the water evaporated from her skin.

Guff followed after her. "What happened next? What did you do?" he pressed.

"_Shh_," Phlegma hissed as they reached the top, "Can you hear anything?"

Guff went still, slowly turning his head in all directions. "No," he finally said.

Only the faintest whisper of wind could be heard as it moaned between the rocks, the water laughing and teasing softly from below as it rippled against the stone.

"Well this is good—sounds like they've scared those dragons off," Phlegma perked to her companion. _Or they've all gotten themselves killed_, she thought to herself with a little jolt. She hoped that wasn't the case. It probably wasn't. Still, it didn't hurt to prepare herself for the worst. Why was she thinking like this?

"Phlegma?" piped Guff.

Phlegma shook her head. "Good for them, but bad for us if we can't hear some kind of _sign_ of where they are." She strained her ears.

Nothing.

They waited... and waited...

And waited.

"Do you suppose they're looking for us, too?" asked Guff.

"Hm," Phlegma considered this, "It's possible." And before she could let herself think twice, she turned to the south and sang out a clear, falsetto "_Yo-HOOOYYYY!_"

Guff flinched at the sudden loudness, his eyes sweeping the sky for any dragons that might overhear.

They waited a few tense moments more at the top of the spire, hearing only a distant reptilian warbling to the south-southeast.

A few heartbeats later, a dark shape coalesced in the fog in that direction. Its form seemed to stutter indecisively amid the shrouds of mist before it solidified and decidedly began to fly in their direction.

"Time to go," said Phlegma, and she and Guff quickly slid down to the base of the little islet and huddled against the north side, peering cautiously around the edge to get a glimpse of the newcomer.

It was a dragon; that much was obvious. It soared along drunkenly, half-heartedly pumping the air with its wings, sending the fog into little whirls in the air.

As it passed almost directly overhead, Phlegma recognized it as a Deadly Nadder.

A Viking arrow shaft jutted from its hindquarters. The wound was fresh.

"Did you see that?" Guff grinned.

"Surely did," Phlegma smiled.

_That way_, they nodded to each other.

They slipped back into the water, their course set before them. Phlegma sighed with relief. The water felt soothingly warm after their long, dripping stand in the chill air.

They swam on.

"So?" murmured Guff.

"So what?" asked Phlegma, knowing perfectly _well_ what.

"So what did you do? The Purple Beast? How did you get out?"

"Oh, _that_..." she mused.

Phlegma had never considered herself as much given to conversation. Much of the _chatter_ of her friends from her youth, or even her present acquaintances, had always seemed pointless and impractical. If something _needed_ to be said, it was her common practice to _say_ it, and then move on with life. '_I told you when I married you that I love you, and I'll let you know if anything changes_' she was always saying to Tryggr.

At any rate, _she_ didn't enjoy long verbal barrages from those around her—why should she burden others with the same? Most of the time she was content to simply observe, and listen. She could pick up more by flapping her ears than her tongue anyway.

Still, she was almost beginning to enjoy how _rapt_ she had young Guff with her story thus far.

Perhaps the sound of her own prattling voice wasn't _so_ terrible. Perhaps there were _some_ occasions where a good rant into the air wouldn't make her sound like a haughty, howling jay.

Perhaps her Bad Day was finally taking a turn for the better.

"Well, don't you know the rest of the story from there?" Phlegma stalled with an invisible grin.

"I don't know—_do I?_" said Guff. He had only heard it secondhand after all.

Phlegma took a deep breath. "Well... the bucket brigade was still overwhelmed elsewhere..."

- X - X - X - X - X -

_Phlegma gagged and wheezed as the Purple Beast's gas enveloped and pervaded the haystack she was trapped in. The sickening opacity of the fumes blocked out all else save the monster's other head—the one that would spit out a _spark_. That spark would ignite the gas, and blow the haystack and everything in it into oblivion, and Phlegma's tribe would have a _very_ difficult time finding all the pieces to lay on her funeral pyre..._

__

The spark-head twined in closer, its jaws opening wide...

Phlegma made a furious swipe with her spear. The head flinched away—_almost_ fast enough. The tip of the spearhead just managed to pink the brute across its great ugly nose.

It howled at the smart, and then darted in toward her, fangs glistening.

Phlegma threw up her spear to shield herself. Her arms were viciously jarred as the Beast's jaws clamped down on the weapon. After a second of struggling, Phlegma's spear was ripped from her grasp. She saw it splinter into three remarkably even segments as the Zippleback snapped its teeth together.

And then the head came back.

_Phlegma could barely see as she coughed and hacked on the gas. She threw up her arms, miraculously bracing one hand against the monster's nose, the other against its chin as it pressed in to rip her apart. Its purple hide squirmed and undulated beneath her palms as it curled its lips. Its breath reeked of a thousand rotting fish heads. Its tongue lashed wildly, its teeth _scraped_ gratingly as it snarled and snapped above her._

__

And then its jaw slackened, its mouth opened wide, and it made that curious little inhaling gargle that indicated it was about to spark...

Where was that confusticated bucket brigade?_ Phlegma thought wildly. The only way to keep the spark-head of a Zippleback from sparking was to douse it with water._

Where were they?_ She didn't have _time!

__

There was no water, and Phlegma had half a heartbeat left to live.

_She coughed again on the gas all around her... and then _sniffed_... and _snorted_... and _hacked_ and _hocked_ and finally _ejected_ the largest, thickest, most desperately perfect loogie she had ever conjured in her _life_._

__

It spatted cleanly down the center of the Purple Beast's throat.

_The jaws snapped together in surprise. The creature's eyes _bulged_. It parted its teeth once more and _hissed_, its lower jaw giving that peculiar quivering twitch that usually accompanied the production of a spark._

__

Nothing happened.

It hissed and twitched again... and again nothing happened.

_Its spark... was _out_._

- X - X - X - X - X -

"...which was what inspired the annual Loogie-Hocking Competition," said Phlegma.

"Ha! The one you always win!" Guff laughed, "It _is_ true, then!"

"Hang on, I'm not done yet," said Phlegma.

- X - X - X - X - X -

_The Purple Beast's spark was _out_._

_Phlegma actually laughed. _Well _that_ worked!_ she thought._

__

And then the monster bore down on her again with a mind-snapping shriek, determined to rend her asunder.

Its screams pierced the skull and wounded the heart, so terrible were they. Phlegma again blocked the monster's face with her bare palms, one hand curled around its lower lip, the other clinging desperately to one of its nostrils. The gas was beginning to make her feel dizzy and sluggish.

And then there was a guttural yell from Spitelout, and the swoosh of a double-headed axe... and the spark-spewing head of the Hideous Purple Beast jerked in mid-cry, separated from its neck, and landed with a thud on Phlegma's chest, its evil eyes ogling in a frozen grimace so nightmarish that when Phlegma beheld it, the part of her soul that loved playing peek-a-boo with babies was instantly killed.

_The stench of its dying gasp was heart-breakingly vile._

- X - X - X - X - X -

"So wait, _Spitelout_ killed the Purple Beast?" asked Guff.

"Well, yes, if you want to get _technical_—but—look, do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?"

Guff opened his mouth, but Phlegma cut him off again, "Never mind, let's have another look around," she said, wading toward another promising spire.

When they had climbed to the top, the two of them listened intently for several long minutes... to absolutely no avail. Phlegma sang out again, but no responding voice, human or dragon, answered her.

They clung there, shivering as the seawater drained in little rivulets from their hair and tunics, down their skin and into their boots. The mist pressed in around them, as though trying to snuff them and their measly cries for help out of existence.

"What should we do?" Guff finally asked.

Phlegma panned her eyes slowly across the confined scene again, though there wasn't much to look at. The sun still shone weakly through the haze overhead, onto rock, sea, and mist... nothing else.

She was sure she had been far more badly stranded than _this_ before... though she was having trouble recalling any specific instances just now. What was she doing? She couldn't afford to waste time _thinking_. They had to _move_.

"Let's keep going," she said, and they descended the stone once more.

Phlegma slipped back into the water, and was again relieved by its relative warmth... in fact, it seemed a little _too_ comfortable...

Guff voiced her thoughts, "Does the water seem warmer to you?"

"...Yes..." Phlegma froze. Her eyes dropped to the rippling surface, straining to penetrate into the murky depths below. "Guff...?" she said very slowly, and motioned intently toward another rock.

They both swam, and then tiptoed, and then waded, and finally sloshed onto a shallower bit of stone where the water came only to their calves... and waited. Phlegma's grip tightened on her spear as she scanned her surroundings once more. Something wasn't right.

A soft gurgling made them both turn. There, precisely where they had been treading water only a moment before, a gigantic, round hump of scaly back, crested down the center with a line of sharp spines, was coursing lazily through the dark currents.

Guff let out a sick-sounding groan. "_Scauldron_," he grimaced.

"Don't move," whispered Phlegma.

It was _enormous_. Between them, she and Guff _might_ have been able to kill the thing. Possibly. _Right, with only a spear and a knife_, she thought.

But she didn't want to engage it; there was no sense raising a ruckus that might draw more dragons. Besides, it didn't seem to have noticed them. It merely continued sweeping its fat tail sluggishly from side to side, winding its buoyant, blubbery way between the rocks, keeping to the deepest parts of the maze of water and stone.

Phlegma noted with chagrin that it swam off in exactly the direction they needed to go.

"Well that's... just... _dandy_-fine," she hissed under her breath with a scowl.

The Vikings stood there dumbly for a moment before Phlegma forced herself to get to the point. _Nothing for it_, she told herself. Time was wasting. Their ships were probably on the move.

They had to _act_.

"Well..." she began, bucking up, "How do you feel about trailing a giant sea-dragon?"

"Now _there's_ a fine idea," Guff sighed, squinting resignedly after the creature. Over his face there came a look that was very familiar to Phlegma; Viking warriors only ever pulled _that_ expression when they were weighing the prospect of a dashing new scar against how much it might hurt to acquire it. "I don't suppose it can get any worse from here, anyway."

"Well at least we're not back home looking after _Hiccup_," Phlegma suggested, and Guff snorted in suppressed laughter.

"All right, things _could_ be worse!" he admitted, "Lead on."

"We'll try and keep to the shallows," said Phlegma, "Let's hurry—I don't want to lose sight of it..."

This was easier said than done. She didn't want to get too _close_ to the Scauldron; she'd already had one close call today, and that was enough for her. She didn't need another dragon eating her head and messing up her braid.

But at the same time, she didn't want to let the beast get too far ahead and out of sight, as it was her strong opinion that when there's a wasp in the room, one ought to know where it is. The dense fog made this especially difficult, and Phlegma found herself and Guff maintaining a delicate balance between staying just in sight of the Scauldron's tail, and _out_ of sight of its head. She was suddenly very grateful that this particular specimen was so _huge_.

Adding to the Vikings' difficulties was the abominable way the honeycomb of stone beneath them never stayed shallow for long. Despite their taking extra pains to follow looping paths and curves that kept them at easy, wading depths, within sprinting distance of the safety of the clustering rock spires... they inevitably came to the occasional dead end where the stones gave way beneath their feet, and they had to swim for it.

Phlegma considered herself an accomplished master of her own fears. She simply never gave them the time to be acknowledged; she always had more important things to do, and couldn't be bothered with frivolous thoughts that would serve no constructive purpose.

But swimming across the dark spans of dragon-warmed water in the haze of an eternal fog, unable to see more than a few inches beneath the surface, unable to make out the depth where her own feet were dangling, obvious and vulnerable... was beginning to unnerve even _her_.

She wondered just _how deep_ the water was... and what her silhouette must have looked like from way down there... surely tempting beyond belief to things with gaping jaws, and luminous, bulging eyes... and _rows upon rows of sword-like teeth_...

Phlegma shook her head and focused on reaching the next rock in a nightmare of calm paddling until she found herself clinging to it like a bedraggled spider.

She was losing it.

But then she looked at Guff. And his pathetically short beard. He really was just a boy. He probably always would be, in her eyes. Oddný's little sandy-haired boy who was always throwing rocks in the summer and snowballs in the winter.

She couldn't afford to lose it. Not until Guff was safely back under Hoark's command at least. She was going to have to give that crusty old goat a piece of her mind about keeping a better eye on his men...

"Tell me more," Guff whispered presently, "about the Purple Beast."

Phlegma thanked all the gods above for the distraction...

- X - X - X - X - X -

_Phlegma pushed the Zippleback's severed head off her chest and away, into the haystack, hiding its face from her view. Its eyes still burned vividly in her brain, though, and would loom behind the shades of her darkest dreams for the next fortnight._

__

"Gnarl, help me!" said Spitelout's voice.

There followed an intense grunting and puffing and a few nasty oaths. Phlegma could not see what was happening, but she felt the pressure on her hips and belly lessen as the beam shifted above her. She wriggled furiously, clawing backwards through the hay until with a final scraping yank and a few dozen splinters, she pulled her legs free.

"I'm out!" she called, and the men exhaled exhaustedly, releasing the end of the beam and sending the whole of it crunching back down into the haystack.

Phlegma tunneled her way out of the pile and into the fresh air, where she hacked and coughed and wheezed until she thought her lungs would burst. All that gas hadn't done her any favors. She was never going to get over this cough...

"Huh," panted Spitelout, helping Phlegma to her feet, "I thought we were all flash-fry then—"

_Phlegma socked him in the face. "_WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?_" she shrieked._

_Spitelout shoved her back. "What _took_ me so long?" he snarled, and then pointed to the Purple Beast's two other severed heads on the ground a short distance away. "THAT took me so long, you great barking walrus!"_

__

Phlegma's eyes narrowed as she stepped forward and took a handful of Spitelout's tunic. Spitelout grabbed her wrist—

_"_PHLEGMA!_" boomed Stoick the Vast._

__

Everyone went still as the Chief of the tribe approached in an authoritative stride. Phlegma noticed for the first time that a sizeable crowd seemed to have congregated around the grisly scene of the slain Purple Beast.

_"_Where is my son?_" the Chief demanded._

__

Phlegma and Spitelout looked first at Stoick, and then at each other... and promptly disengaged, brushing the dirt and bits of hay from their clothes.

"He's with Gobber," said Phlegma.

"I told you to take him to the Hall and stay there," Stoick raged, "What are you doing out here?"

"Killing the Purple Beast, Chief," said Phlegma icily.

_"You knew my orders—_no women at the front_," Stoick growled._

__

"But—"

"But nothing!" yelled Stoick, his beard bristling. He gave a sigh that sounded as if it were only filling in for any of the thousand profanities he would rather have been bellowing. "Go and take my boy back home," he finished in a lower voice. And then he turned, and stalked away.

The Chief was through talking.

The matter was over.

The Vikings began to disperse.

A trembling sigh of hesitant quietude descended upon the village as the dragons retreated for the night. Spitelout gave Phlegma a look that was half-apologetic, half-you-owe-me-big-time, and followed briskly after Stoick.

Men and women and children reunited and returned to their homes (or to their piles of rubble, as each case went) to count heads and assess the damage done. Only a couple of young boys remained behind, bravely poking at the Purple Beast's still-twitching corpse with a stick, and daring each other to touch it with their hands, while Phlegma and Gnarl looked on.

"I saw it about to spark in your face," said Gnarl.

Phlegma said nothing. She was too depressed.

"Did you really do what I think I heard you do? To stop it?" Gnarl asked.

"I don't know, what do you think you heard me do?" asked Phlegma, not particularly caring about his answer.

_But Gnarl only smirked and shook his head as he regarded again the gigantic, three-headed Hideous Zippleback, finally dead. "_That_... was bloody amazing," he grinned, "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."_

__

Had Phlegma been in better spirits, she might have more warmly welcomed the praise. But she was tired, her throat was burning, and she just wanted to go home.

_"I need to find Hiccup," she sighed, and left Gnarl alone._

- X - X - X - X - X -

"What did the Chief mean, no women at the front?" asked Guff as he waded at Phlegma's elbow.

"It's just a rule he's had, ever since Valhallarama died," Phlegma answered.

"His wife?"

"Yes—" Phlegma hauled herself up onto one end of a long slip of black rock, "She was one of his commanders. Excellent sword-arm..." she mused, helping Guff up after her. "But... well, after she died, Stoick only wanted _men_ leading his warriors into battle. He didn't want..." Phlegma paused. "He didn't want..."

Guff remained patiently quiet behind her as they walked over the slick stone.

Phlegma breathed deeply. "He just didn't want it to happen again," she finally said.

They walked in silence for a moment more, ducking through a strange natural archway near the rock's crest.

"How did she die?" asked Guff.

Phlegma kept walking.

_Valhallarama laughed, warmly and clearly. Phlegma could see her smiling in relief as she finally sheathed her sword. The stars were quite beautiful that night, even through all the smoke..._

"Do you know?" Guff pressed.

"That story's not mine to tell," said Phlegma. She quickened her pace slightly; the tip of the Scauldron's fan-like tail was threatening to disappear into the mist. "You'll have to ask Stoick."

"Ask the Chief?" Guff gave a small, incredulous scoff, "Perhaps I'll just resign myself to not knowing."

"Or you could ask Hiccup," Phlegma added.

When Guff didn't respond, Phlegma looked back. One glance at his face told her that he was considering all _sorts_ of new scars, and that none of them seemed worth it. She couldn't really blame him. Hiccup was, in his own... _special_ way... more dangerous than any dragon.

"Huh, well that doesn't make asking the Chief sound _so_ bad..." Guff muttered. "But there was something else—what about you?"

Phlegma's eyebrows flicked upward. "What _about_ me?"

"Well, you're one of the Chief's commanders, aren't you?"

"Ah, right," Phlegma nodded, "Well, Spitelout had actually gone to try and convince Stoick to move me up—he was down two commanders already."

"_Two_ commanders?"

"First Valhallarama, and then Gobber had gone and lost his hand."

"Ah," said Guff.

They paused to climb back into the shallows as the rock finally gave out beneath them. The water felt warmer still...

"Gobber still tried to fight just the same, though, at the next raid," Phlegma continued, "But his injury slowed him up, and the big oaf lost his foot, too."

Guff grimaced and gave a sympathetic moan. Everybody made that sound with Gobber's story, no matter how many times they'd heard it.

"Stoick ordered him out of battle then, until he could fully recover. Oh, he _hated_ it, not being able to do anything..."

- X - X - X - X - X -

_"No, _no_, _NO!_" Gobber bellowed from his chair. With the stump of his right leg propped up in front of the fire, there was nothing he could do to halt Phlegma's approach. "He's your responsibility, not mine—you can't—oy!" He held up his hand, seeming to forget that he only had one, which was not enough to keep Phlegma from thrusting little Hiccup into his lap._

_"Gobber the _Purple Beast_ is out there—they need help. Please, just two minutes..."_

_"Stoick entrusted him to _you_—not me."_

_"Well _you're_ not doing anything right now, are you?" Phlegma hefted her spear, "I can help them—"_

_"_Phlegma_," Gobber grabbed her arm, "leave the Purple Beast to Stoick—he'll take care of it. If he can handle... _THIS_—" Gobber gestured to all of the boy on his lap, "—he can handle that three-headed devil."_

_"Then it should follow that since the Chief deems me _also_ able to handle _THIS_—" Phlegma gestured to all of Hiccup, "I can also handle a Purple Beast!" She turned to the door. "I killed that Nightmare in the training ring—what's one more Zippleback? I'll be right back."_

_"Phlegma! _PHLEGMA!_"_

- X - X - X - X - X -

"They needed more hands. I was just trying to fill the gap. And we did kill the Purple Beast after all," said Phlegma, "Spitelout told Stoick that if I hadn't doused its spark-head when I did... he would have been short _another_ commander. And several more warriors."

"Oh?" said Guff.

"See, while the spark-head was busy trying to chew me up, the _gas-head_ was spewing out the hugest cloud of dragon-gas Berk has ever seen. Gnarl told me about it later—said it was like walking through pea-soup before it all settled to the ground... Anyway," Phlegma went on, "it had seeped into most of the houses by Pepperbeard's bakery—you know where there's sort of that little dell in the ground?"

"I know the spot."

"All the gas had pooled in there like a bog, a stone's cast from end to end, and four feet deep in the middle," said Phlegma, "The _volume_ of it all was just _mad_. If that dragon had sparked, that gas-cloud could have blown up half the lower village."

Guff cocked one eyebrow at her.

"...I'm serious!" said Phlegma, "Ah, you weren't there. Never mind. But when Stoick saw how much gas I'd kept from lighting up... he conceded to Spitelout that I might actually have some use on a battlefield."

"And he made you one of his commanders?" asked Guff.

"No. Actually, he was a bit furious that we'd picked _that spot_ to bring the Beast down," said Phlegma, deflating a little.

"Why?"

"Well, there was no wind that night, so all that gas was still pooling there. It was a hazard—you couldn't bring so much as a _candle_ anywhere near it. We had no way to get rid of it all... except to blow it up anyway."

- X - X - X - X - X -

_The moon shone brightly overhead._

__

A throng of Vikings, all bearing shields, stood at the north end of the lower village. Every home on the south side had been evacuated, and all valuables had been removed to a safe distance.

Stoick the Vast held up his arm for attention. The crowd quieted, watching with wide eyes. Mothers and fathers covered the ears of their children.

"Let fly!" the Chief shouted, and the four archers beside him released their flaming arrows, which sailed in a perfect arc, right down into the center of the gas-bog.

The ensuing fireball flared up into the sky in one roaring, deafening instant, blooming like a mushroom, shaking the cliffs and rattling the ships in the harbor. Thick waves of heat rolled over the onlooking Vikings. Bits of flaming wood rained down to bounce off of raised shields and horned helmets.

And then, as quickly as they had sprung up, the flames exhausted themselves and went out, leaving a ball of smoke the size of a small thundercloud hovering over the village.

It was a spectacular display. The Vikings cheered.

Stoick didn't waste any time. "All right, now, everyone get to house-raising!" he bellowed.

The Vikings groaned.

_Out of necessity, the residents of Berk were excellent at rebuilding homes. But it wasn't really anybody's favorite job._

- X - X - X - X - X -

"...and it blew up... _half the lower village_," Phlegma asserted.

Guff's brow had furrowed and his jaw had dropped slightly. "I think I _remember_ that!" he declared, "Right. Father asking if I wanted to see the fireball... and then the Thorstons staying with us for the next two days because their house blew up. Hah, I remember that..." he chuckled to himself, "Oh that was _ages_ ago..."

And then he started, "Wait... the south end... so that would have included _your_ house, too, then?"

"Eh, it was bound to happen—'You can't go home _every_ day'," Phlegma quoted one of Berk's oldest sayings. "But once the new houses were raised, we were able to mount some fine trophies over the doors—I got the spark-head, Spitelout got the gas-head, and Gnarl took the extra. Of course, those eventually burned down in later raids..."

"But if the Chief didn't make you a commander _then_," Guff started, "then... when?"

"Well, Spitelout couldn't convince him," Phlegma sighed as she and Guff skirted a long line of twisted spires, "So he came to me."

- X - X - X - X - X -

_"You were Valhallarama's second," said Spitelout, thumping his flagon back down on the table, "Her warriors are accustomed to taking orders from you anyway."_

__

Phlegma took a long pull from her horn. "Any orders they might get from me, they can get just as well from you or Ack or Starkard—"

_"Maybe they could," Spitelout cut her off, "if we weren't also bogged down with _Gobber's_ men. The other seconds are tired of this; we're spread too thin as it is. We need another commander and we can't wait for Gobber to heal up—_if_ he heals up... Thor knows if he'll even _walk_ again!"_

__

"What about Hoark's second? Why don't you move him up?"

"Sneerspit?" asked Spitelout.

"He's led a fair number of men before."

_"Sneerspit couldn't lead himself to water if he fell out of a boat. Valhallarama's warriors want _you_."_

_"I _know_," Phlegma sighed, rubbing her brow, "but you heard the Chief... no women..."_

_Spitelout rolled his eyes. "It's a daft rule and he knows it. Just _talk to him_."_

_"I thought _you_ already tried," said Phlegma, "If he didn't listen to you, why would he listen to me? I'm just a second. Barely."_

__

"He'll listen."

_"He's still angry with me—" Phlegma pounded the table, "You know we finally found out where Hiccup had gone after he gave Gobber the slip the other night? This morning the Chief found him playing with dragon-gas—_dragon-gas_—on his hearth! The little snipe had brought some of it back in a pail and he was _ladling_ it into the fire... making little fireballs!"_

__

This was news to Spitelout. Phlegma saw some of the optimism leave his face as he realized how little a stunt like that could have done for Stoick's mood.

_"Just... talk to him," Spitelout said again, even so, "He _will_ listen to you. He always listened to _her_. You were her friend."_

__

"Spitelout—"

_He laid a serious hand on her arm. "We _need_ you to take command of her warriors."_

- X - X - X - X - X -

"And then he left," said Phlegma, "So I downed another horn of mead... or two or... three... I can't really remember—and went to talk to Stoick. And I asked him to move me up from second to commander. And... he agreed."

"What, just like that?" asked Guff, wading two steps behind her, "How did you do it?"

Phlegma thought about it for a moment.

She remembered herself standing across the table from her Chief...

_"Enough, Phlegma!" Stoick shouted, "You're _not_ moving to the front—you shouldn't even be a _second!_"_

__

"I already know how to handle her warriors—they've followed my commands before—"

"You're not ready, and you never will be," Stoick growled.

_"I've killed _twice_ as many dragons as any of your commanders! Why not put me where I can _do some good?_" Phlegma argued, "I can lead the men—they trust me."_

_"You trust _ME_ now," Stoick yelled, laying one strained hand on his chest, "I'm doing this for _you!_ Do you think I want to see another fair woman of Berk _stricken_ to the earth and—and—" He fumbled for descriptions that his tongue could never repeat. "Do you think I want to see you _dead?_ Do you think _Tryggr_ wants to see you dead?"_

__

Phlegma stiffened. Her jaw clenched.

Stoick attempted to soften his voice, and failed miserably, "What will he do if you get yourself killed?" he boomed.

"I won't get myself killed," Phlegma trembled.

"Valhallarama thought the same thing," Stoick roared, "and look what happened to her!"

"It wasn't through any frailty of hers—it could have happened to anyone!" Phlegma shouted back.

_"BUT IT HAPPENED TO _HER!_" Stoick exploded, "I DO NOT—WANT—what GRIEF _**I**_ have borne to fall upon anyone EVER AGAIN!"_

_"Well it already has because she was _MY FRIEND TOO!_" Phlegma slammed the table with one palm, "_I knew her longer than you EVER did!_" she yelled, surprised at her own boldness._

__

A few heartbeats passed. Phlegma breathed.

"And she wouldn't have wanted this." Phlegma leaned back from the table. "She wouldn't have wanted this..."

_Her feet moved toward the door..._

The seconds dragged. Guff's question still hung in the air. _How did you do it?_

_How did you convince the Chief?_

The warm water rose to the two Vikings' elbows as they ran out of ground again.

They stopped.

"I don't know," Phlegma said honestly.

"Too much mead?" Guff asked with a grin.

"Maybe," said Phlegma.

They became silent as their toes pushed off the stone, propelling them into another bridgeless void of dark water.

The Scauldron's tail lazily fanned the water fifty yards ahead on the other side of the rocks... and then slapped the surface noisily, disappearing beneath the waves and leaving behind a circle of ripples.

Phlegma and Guff took a heartbeat's pause, and then kept paddling, a bit more vigorously than before.

"_Don't splash_, _don't splash_..." warned Phlegma, as much to herself as to Guff. She _ached_ to shed her spear and swim for it all out. The distance yet to the rocks was _staggering_...

They were halfway there. The Scauldron hadn't resurfaced. Perhaps the only way for it to continue southward had been through some underwater passageway. Perhaps it had found some prey animal, something much more _interesting_ than two measly Vikings, and was now chasing it into the depths. Perhaps it had split off and would now swim away and out of their path.

Perhaps it was waiting for them.

Phlegma felt her fingers at last brush against the cold stone in the warm water. She hauled herself forward, swiftly and silently, into the shallows in the lee of a huge fang of rock jutting into the sky. Now if they could just slip around to the other side and get a little higher... they'd be in with a fighting chance...

She shook her head again—she didn't even know for certain if the Scauldron were after them.

But it didn't hurt to be prepared. Phlegma gripped her spear tightly. "Quiet, now—" she whispered, and took one more step to lead the way before she heard Guff trip behind her, crash into the water, and felt his hand grab her boot.

Phlegma had a special death-glare for the lower warriors that she reserved for occasions like this. It sprang only too readily to her face as she whirled around, fully intent on boring it forever into her young companion's skull... until she saw the cause of his fall.

His grip around her ankle tightened as the Scauldron pulled back on his left foot, drawing him toward the deep water.

"Guff!" she yelled, and grabbed onto the rocks behind her.

"It's hot—it's hot _it's hot!_" Guff screamed. He wriggled to free his foot from the creature's jaws.

"_PULL!_" Phlegma shouted, bracing herself in her anchor-hold.

With a terrific wrench, Guff slipped out of his boot and tumbled into the shallows. The Scauldron's head jerked backward with the release... right before it swallowed the footwear.

"THAT WAS MY _BOOT_, YOU DEVIL!" Guff bellowed, leaping to his feet.

Phlegma grabbed his arm and pulled him aside just as the Scauldron spewed out a jet of boiling hot water. It steamed off the rocks as it swept after them, swiping across their backs and seeping into their clothes with hammering pressure.

"_Down!_" Phlegma screamed, burning her hand as she shoved Guff on the back. The Vikings dove into the water, submerging themselves to dissipate the heat. They swam a short distance beneath the surface before coming up again a bit farther around the rock.

The Scauldron followed them, gurgling deep in its throat.

"Up, _up!_" Phlegma shouted. She grabbed Guff by the nape of his steaming jerkin, and the two of them scrambled out of the gravelly shallows and up onto the slick stone, the Scauldron twining its interminable neck around the spire and spewing after them again.

Somewhere very, very deep inside, Phlegma really was grateful the dragon was spitting _water_ and not _fire_. But this sentiment did nothing to lessen the burn as the second blast soaked through her bodice and seethed against her skin. Fortunately the water had lost much of its heat to the air as it spanned the increasing gap between the Scauldron's maw and the fleeing Vikings... but it couldn't be enough.

"Aoh that's gonna _blister!_" Guff grunted as they clawed their way up the slope.

Phlegma saw the look of disappointed pain on his face and knew exactly what he was thinking: blisters _never_ left decent scars.

Faster and faster they scaled the twisting rock, the Scauldron spewing from below and beginning to clamber its way onto the base of the spire. The stone was far too sheer for a creature of its incredible girth to climb, but the Scauldron's dizzyingly long neck still stretched high into the air after the two Vikings as it pelted them again with a steaming rain.

Guff vaulted over a jagged lip of stone near the spire's crest and quickly turned to give Phlegma a hand up. The two of them backed away from the ledge and into a shallow crack in the rock behind them, panting as the mist slowly cooled their sodden clothes to more tolerable temperatures. The Scauldron bellowed long and low and gutturally from below.

"Can Scauldrons fly?" Guff heaved.

"Never seen one do it _yet_," Phlegma replied. She shifted her hold on her spear, ready to cast it if need be, though she desperately hoped it wouldn't come to that. She doubted she would be able to regain it again.

The trouble with Scauldrons was that they were so blasted enormous they could only be dealt with from a distance. They could take an incredible beating before going down, but more often than not they simply retreated instead of rolling over and dying like good dragons should. Unless a Viking could pull off a lucky strike to the creature's deeply buried heart, or through its mouth to its brain, or somehow slice through its thick, powerful neck in one go... hand-weapons were largely useless against it. Catapults and harpoons worked best.

Phlegma looked at her spear again. If she only had some _rope_...

Signaling Guff to keep back, she took a step forward to peer over the edge.

There was the beast down below, huge and green and globulous, its wings splayed menacingly, but not moving. When it saw her it sprayed again. Phlegma stepped back just as the water hit the edge of the rock-shelf, splashing off the stone and sending up a harmless cloud of steam.

The Scauldron roared and gurgled in agitation. Phlegma and Guff raised their eyebrows at each other. They seemed to be safe for the moment. But their current position hardly gave them cause to celebrate.

The dragon let loose another spray, this time missing the spire entirely by a good six feet. The Vikings watched the jet of scalding water shoot past them and up into the air.

"Lousy shot," Guff piped up with a pained little smile. Phlegma smiled back. Anything to lighten the mood was welcome.

And then the Scauldron's jet of water came arcing back down with perfect accuracy, and drenched them both in a very warm and slightly smelly drizzle.

They both stood there like ridiculous statues as the water coursed down their features.

Phlegma felt as if (and rather wished that) the next thing she so much as _looked_ at might just burst into flame.

She gave up trying to remember worse predicaments she might have been in. What was the point? As Bad Days went, Phlegma was sure this was the very worst one of her life.

She really, _really_ wished she had just stayed in bed that morning.

"Well," Guff remarked in the dripping silence, "At least we're not babysitting Hiccup."

Four absurd heartbeats passed... and then Phlegma practically cried in appreciative mirth. She snickered and snorted and positively _howled_, Guff chuckling along as the Scauldron sent up another spray.

They laughed and laughed until Guff straightened up sharply. "What was that?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"What?" Phlegma snapped back to a warrior's alertness, though a nasty, somewhat bitter grin still lingered on her face.

Another warm shower rained down on them.

"—_oooyyyy!_"

The Vikings went still.

"Did you hear that?" said Guff.

"_Where'd it come from?_" Phlegma hissed at the same time.

They cast their eyes and ears in all directions, hardly daring to breathe.

"_Phlegmaaaa! Guuuuuff!_" the voice said again. It had come from somewhere _behind_ them and to the right—they had overshot their mark!

The Scauldron gargled and rumbled down below.

It was a new sound. Phlegma and Guff peered cautiously over the edge once more.

The dragon's head had turned in the direction of the distant calls. It twined its neck, eerie and snakelike, back down toward the water, low in the mist. Shuffling backward, slowly and disgustingly jiggling like a beached whale, the Scauldron heaved itself back into the sea, slipping into its element, where it was buoyant and graceful... and most deadly.

It was leaving. It turned right around in the pocket of deep water down below, and pointed its nose back toward the north.

Phlegma and Guff gawked after it in astonishment, unable to believe their good luck...

...and the _bad_ luck of whoever had been calling them...

"_Phlegmaaaa!_" came the voice again.

"Oh dear," said Phlegma, her eyes following the Scauldron, "That... beastie might just give them some trouble."

"Trouble, it'll _kill_ them!" Guff exclaimed. He stood tall and waved his arms. "Hey! Hey dragon!" he shouted, "Hoy Scauldron back here! Up here!"

"It's no use!" Phlegma stopped Guff's flapping when the Scauldron failed to deviate from its path. It quickly disappeared into the mist.

"_Guff?_" the distant call floated over the air.

"On _three_ we'll say '_beware_'," said Phlegma, "_Slowly_. Get it?"

"Right," said Guff.

Phlegma tucked her spear in the crook of one arm, cupped her hands around her mouth like the bell of a trumpet and counted, Guff following her lead, and—

"_BEEEEWAAAAAAARE!_" they bellowed, Phlegma bobbing her head to direct the syllables.

A few seconds of silence.

"_Hooooyyyyyy!_" the voice sang out.

"Again," said Phlegma, "Say '_Scauldron_'. On three. One, two, _three_—"

"_SCAAAAUULDROOOONNNNN!_"

Again a silence.

It carried on a little too long.

"'_Beware_' again," said Phlegma, "Ready?"

Guff nodded.

"One, two, _three_—"

"_BEEEEWAAAAAAARE!_"

Nothing.

And nothing.

And nothing again.

And finally... a burbling roar... and the very faint but very definite sound... of irate human shouting.

"_Aoh_ for crying in the mud—_come on!_" Phlegma shouted, and hopped over the edge to skid back down the slick stone of the spire.

Guff followed her unsteadily. "They're so _close?_" he marveled, his words punctuated with each shaky footfall.

"We need to hurry," was all Phlegma said. She slowed only slightly at the water's edge, careful to enter it quietly while still moving at breakneck speed—not easy.

And she and Guff slipped right back into the wide span of deep, dark, warm water they had only just narrowly escaped... and once again swam for it like madmen.

The sounds led them slightly to the left of the way they had come from, across an even _wider_ and _deeper_ span of groundless, mist-bound sea, but Phlegma spared the thought no room to grow into a mindless fear; she didn't have the time. She just had to focus on getting back to her ship and her tribe as quickly as possible... they _needed_ her... They needed _Guff_.

Phlegma heard a strained creaking and crashing that she thought could only be the snapping of a mast, and redoubled her pace. But for how briskly they were swimming, the rocks ahead seemed never to draw any closer. It was _unbearable_...

But after a few moments the spires did indeed loom a little taller, and a little broader, and more solid through the prevalent mists, until finally, Phlegma felt the brush of a rock against her shin. She and Guff found their footing and, caring no longer for stealth at this point, sloshed in a very noisy run over the last thirty yards to an enormous, pockmarked fin of stone, jutting from the sea like the blade of a saw. They clambered onto the rock and dashed toward the far end. The sounds of angry Scauldron and splintering wood and ugly curses were so clear now it was almost as if they could be just on the other side—

Phlegma and Guff came to the razor-sharp end of the crest and peeked around the edge.

They _were_ on the other side.

One of the ships, _Mama's Good Gravy_, lay scuttled against a jagged spire. The Scauldron was stamping it halfway to smithereens while playing a deadly game of ring-around-the-rosie with a Viking higher up the rock.

It was Spitelout.

Scanning the scene quickly, Phlegma laid eyes on the happiest sight she had seen all day: there on the deck of the splintering ship, thumping against the railing, was a poor, neglected harpoon with nobody to cast it. Excellent.

"Climb to the top and go to the other end," Phlegma ordered Guff, gesturing up the fin of rock they stood on, "Draw that thing's attention."

"Right," Guff turned at once and scrambled, half-shod, up the sharp and jagged slope.

Phlegma meanwhile slipped around in a wide circle, heading toward the ship. The Scauldron seemed intently and entirely occupied with its current prey, but she didn't want to take any chances of letting it see her. She hid low in the water as she skirted around rocks and beneath twisted arches of black stone.

"Hoy! Hey dragon, up here!" Guff called out.

Starting in surprise just before it moved in to chomp the stranded Spitelout, the Scauldron turned its head and twined its neck in the opposite direction. Phlegma looked too. Guff had chosen a particularly high perch of jutting stone, well out of reach of the dragon's teeth or claws, whereon he now started jumping obnoxiously up and down.

"I'm gonna hunt down your mother and chop off her head and stick it on my _wall_ you smelly tub of lard!" Guff taunted.

He narrowly dodged a furious jet of boiling water.

"_Oh!_ Your mother and all your _babies!_" he jeered on.

_That's good_, thought Phlegma, _keep it busy just a little longer_... She held her breath and swam beneath the surface for the last few yards to the ship, coming up safely hidden behind the sternward hull.

She crept silently over the edge and onto the deck. There was the harpoon. Phlegma smiled. All those cold iron barbs could seriously ruin a dragon's day. Much more so than her _own_ spear.

She reached out for it...

...and felt the deck shift beneath her feet as her weight disrupted the ship's delicate balance on the rocks, and sent it tumbling completely onto its side, deck toward the dragon.

She landed in a heap against the other railing.

The Scauldron's head jerked back round.

"HEY I'M TALKIN' TO YOU!" Guff bellowed, drawing the knife from his belt. He flipped it in his hand a few times.

The Scauldron took one more look at Guff, and just had time to see him flick his wrist before the knife came zipping through the air and plunged into its right eye socket.

It reared and let out a gurgling shriek, spewing acid-hot water in all directions.

Phlegma regained her feet and grabbed the harpoon. She hurled it straight at the dragon's momentarily bared breast, casting it with such force that it plunged beneath the skin for twice the length of its barbed iron head.

The huge dragon slammed back down onto its enormous paws and bellowed, long and low and _deafeningly_ loud, before shoving off and diving lopsidedly down, down, down into the water with an incredible splashing and thrashing.

It had had enough.

Phlegma saw the line from the harpoon uncoiling rapidly beside her just in time. She jumped out of the way just as the rope tautened, ripping off a piece of the railing, which bounced off the rock, crashed into the water and was dragged swiftly beneath the surface in a whirl of bubbles.

Quickly taking her spear again, Phlegma stood braced in a wide stance for a moment more, ready for anything.

But the Scauldron did not resurface again.

The Vikings breathed.

Spitelout slid down from where he had been clinging like a rat near the top of the spire.

Phlegma walked over to give him a hand down, "_Hoo_," she breathed, "I thought you were mincemeat for a minute there—"

"_What took you so long?_" Spitelout snarled, giving Phlegma a shove on the shoulder as he made his rough way to the ground.

Phlegma shoved him back, "What do you mean what _took_ me so long?" She jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward Guff. "Swimming for miles without a _ship_ took me so long, you big yammering elephant seal!" she bellowed.

Spitelout took a handful of Phlegma's bodice. She grabbed his arm—

And then they both let go a moment later, and sighed. They were getting too old for this. Phlegma was just relieved to have finally _found_ someone at last. But that Spitelout was alone had her worried...

"_Tell_ me dragons didn't eat the rest of our hunting party," she panted.

"No, no," Spitelout shook his head, "The other two ships are back that way," he waved vaguely behind him, "I just came back for a few more things—and I thought I heard you, so I called out."

_Came back?_ "Then, it wasn't the Scauldron that did... this...?" Phlegma asked, gesturing at the wreckage of _Mama's Good Gravy_ strewn about the rock.

"Aoh no, three Nightmares and a _Gronckle_ did _that_," Spitelout explained, "Mean ones. Bloody near chewed Starkard's _legs_ off, but had to settle for just his breeches instead... _indecent_..." He moved toward the shipwreck and started rummaging through the debris.

Starkard was normally terrifying enough in battle, but the image of him wildly brandishing his axe and sword while bared to the skivvies was just too much for Phlegma. She pushed the thought from her mind, and turned her attentions to the approaching Guff.

He had descended back down the jagged fin of rock, and wound his way through the shallows, wading toward them, and was now swimming the last few yards to the small islet where they stood.

"Guff!" Phlegma called in her stern commander's voice.

"Phlegma?"

"Where in Thor's name did you learn to throw a knife like that?" asked Phlegma.

Guff lowered his head, as if in concentration on his paddling. "Well..." he began, looking just a _tiny_ bit pleased with himself, "_you_ always place first at _loogie-hocking_. I've been coming in second at knife-throwing for four years running."

Phlegma's eyebrows flicked upward. "Second to who?"

"Foxtoes the Gamble," Guff said with a little grimace.

"Well next year we'll pit Foxtoes against a live Scauldron and see how well he does _then_, eh?" Phlegma perked, reaching out a hand as Guff neared the islet, "Guff the _Deadeye?_"

Guff grinned and took her hand. "I like the sound of that," he said. He climbed from the water, his right boot squelching against the stone... and his left sock slashed in several places and tinged with red.

"Oh..." Phlegma started.

Guff followed her eyes to his foot and shrugged, "Sharp rocks."

Phlegma looked up again and recognized the expression on Guff's face. He was sufficed. The scarring wouldn't be anything spectacular, but it would be _decent_ at least.

"Ah, found them," said Spitelout. He emerged from the debris surrounding _Mama's Good Gravy_'s prow with a fine pair of boots in his hands. "Some Nadder put a hole in Sneerspit's boot—spike went right between his toes. Good thing Ack brought these extras—"

"Just a _hole?_" Phlegma swiped the boots right out of Spitelout's hands. "Tell Sneerspit you couldn't find them." She tossed the boots to Guff, who caught them with a grateful look, and set to putting them on.

Ten more minutes of wading saw Phlegma, Guff and Spitelout back to the rest of their tribe amid a small riot of hearty cheers and friendly thumps on the back. The Vikings (and all their supplies) were crammed a bit tighter into the two remaining ships, but Phlegma noted that they seemed nonetheless in good spirits. Men boasted to each other of how many dragons they had just killed, or swapped stories while showing off fresh wounds and bruises.

Phlegma breathed the briny air tinged with the scent of leather and sweat. This was more like it.

Presently she located Hoark the Haggard. "Found something you lost," she said to him, finally handing off her young companion to his proper keeper. She smiled to Guff as they parted, and he returned the look, his jovial grin once again accentuating the boyish image Phlegma kept of him in her head. When _had_ he gotten so big? So brave? So like a Viking Warrior? He had handled himself almost as well as one of her own men.

Maybe not _quite_ as well. But almost.

As she watched him rejoining his friends, she felt a heavy hand come down from behind on her shoulder. She knew who it was even before she turned around.

"Are you all right, Phlegma?" Stoick the Vast asked, softly and seriously.

He always spoke to her more gently than he did to any of his other commanders. Phlegma could never decide whether she liked it or hated it, but she always figured he at least _meant_ it well.

"_Well_, we were _going_ to go and slaughter the lot of them _ourselves_, but... eh, we figured you'd want more than just a few leftovers, so we came back."

"How very generous of you," Stoick played along, unimpressed.

Phlegma lowered her voice. "Ah, it's just been a _Bad Day_, but... I think it's finally getting better. I'm all right," she said.

Stoick gave a throaty chuckle. "Good," he said.

And then Phlegma's heart skipped a little faster as she steeled herself to ask her very least favorite question. It was a requisite query she had asked many times, but she had never gotten used to it. Then again, maybe that was a good thing.

"My men?" she said simply.

"Ask your second," said Stoick, nodding his head to a point somewhere behind her.

Phlegma turned around again, and there was Tryggr. "All accounted for," Tryggr smiled, "Killkeg broke his nose again I think, but that's nothing new and exciting."

Phlegma greeted her husband with a good, tight hug as Stoick moved away to bark a few orders to the rudder-men.

"I was worried," Tryggr murmured, inclining his head to grin peeking at her through his puppy-dog eyebrows.

"You're always worried," said Phlegma.

"Well I _love_ you."

"Hm. I love you too," said Phlegma, and pecked him on the cheek.

"Thor's beard! You're talkative today," Tryggr exclaimed, "I trust you'll still let me know if anything changes?"

"Aha, forgive me, I've been chattering all day..." Phlegma rubbed her brow with a sheepish little smile, "Guff wanted to hear about the _Purple Beast incident_."

"And you told him?"

"Yes."

"The whole story?" Tryggr was incredulous.

"The whole thing," said Phlegma.

"But you hate telling that story." He laid a hand on her back as the breeze filled the sails and propelled the boats along through the mist.

"Well, we had nothing else to do," Phlegma shrugged, "And it passed the time well enough; it wasn't _so _terrible," she admitted.

The eerie spires drifted slowly past as the Vikings sailed deeper into the dragons' territory, the mist pressing in around them as the sun began to sink.

"Better than looking after Hiccup, at least," Phlegma added, and Tryggr laughed.


End file.
